


The Loop

by FrostysaurusRekt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, fake fake marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-01-07 15:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostysaurusRekt/pseuds/FrostysaurusRekt
Summary: It was a wild night.Drinks, lights, gambling.A pretty face that came with a price.Jesse McCree was no fool. He knew the man leaning heavy against him that night had been trying to cash in on his bounty. He was doing just the same- Hanzo Shimada would fetch a fair price.The only problem was: they didn't.And somehow, in the midst of it all, Jesse wound up with a ring.





	1. Heavy Head

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a new fic of mine! Just a short thing. 3 or 4 Chapters at most. Just needed something to flex my writing muscles with and this idea has been stewing for a long time.
> 
> This isn't beta'd so I apologize for any glaring mistakes.
> 
> Please Enjoy!

Jesse McCree would never call his life easy. Not a single part of it felt like he wasn’t five seconds away from having to run for his life, like there wasn’t a sharp blade at his back, a barrel pointed at him. Everything was dangerous- every shadow which might hold enemies, every ray of light from the sun in the sky which might illuminate his face and make him recognizable in public.

But, he had to admit that some days were easier than others.

Those kinds of days were happening more often than not, ever since he finally stopped ignoring his blinking, ages-old communicator, and dragged his ass to Gibraltar.

It wasn’t anything compared to the old days of Overwatch, but it was somewhere he could hide.

More than that, he could live.

He could put things out, return and find them still there. The room was his own, and he wasn’t having to carry everything on his back. He could own things, could keep things which made him smile.

And Jesse did so immediately.

It was uncanny how quickly he collected things.

Most of them were from the nearby towns, small trinkets from shops, even just some empty glass bottles that once held beer. He liked the way the light flashed through them in the mornings, creating a kaleidoscope of browns and greens to shine on his face.

That might have been the smallest pleasure of them all.

Sleep. Actual, honest sleep. Deep, sometimes filled with dreams, and other times just endless and blissful dark. It did wonders for him. He didn’t look quite as angry as he felt and the lack of bags under his eyes adds some youth to his appearance.

There aren’t as many missions as there were in the old days. That’s a given, since they aren’t publicly active and it takes time to scour the world for a task that needs them.

As a result, Jesse sleeps away more mornings than he ever has in his life. No farm work to be done. No gang members causing a ruckus. No drills. No sirens. No shootouts. No running.

_ No running. _

Jesse’s so used to sleeping in that when his communicator goes off before he’s risen, he’s irritated. Nearly irate, irrationally so, but goddamn, sleep is a luxury he wants to take while he has the chance.

“What?” He snaps into the comm, voice heavy with sleep.

“Get your lazy ass up and come to the hangar to meet the new recruit.” Lena snaps back from the other side of the link, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Right. Only six strong, they’d been looking into people to add to their ranks. Genji had several leads and Winston and Tracer were reaching out to public figures- Jesse wonders which one panned out so soon.

It sure as hell wasn’t his. The little microchip tucked into the band inside his hat reminds him of his solitary lead for help. He just needs to find her.

He takes his time getting up, it’s not like the new recruit will be eager to meet him. He wasn’t exactly a public figure back in the prime days of Overwatch. Jesse’s fairly certain he didn’t legally exist for a time there.

Stretching pops the joints in his shoulders and back, quick snaps bringing slow tides of pleasure.

Jesse elects to dress in his more work-oriented getup. Thick pants and chaps, black undershirt, and a nondescript button-up in some tone of faded brown. He leaves his chest armor behind in his room - there are too many buckles and straps that aren’t worth it just for making an appearance - and he wraps his serape over his shoulders.

He bumps into Torbjorn on his way to Hangar 18. It’s the only one that hasn’t been pilfered of all it’s tech or become a glorified storage room.

They don’t chitchat. It’s nothing personal; they just don’t connect like that. He’s always had more of a business relationship with the man. Thanks him for the turret cover, for the tech tune-ups, and leaves at least a cup of coffee in the pot when he knows the Swede has worked through the night.

Sure enough, Torbjorn grouses about the ungodly hour and takes a sharp turn into the mess hall.

Coffee sounds wonderful, but Jesse’s willing to wait until after the meet-and-greet. He likes to have both of his hands free when meeting new people. Just in case.

Thankfully, Torbjorn’s detour means he’s not the last to join the small group in the hangar and he avoid any pointed looks from Tracer or Winston. Reinhardt is there with them, which means Genji took the transport to pick up a contact.

Pessimistic as he is about the state of this ragtag group, it warms his heart some to know that there are people out there still willing to fight the good fight.

He leans against a crate in the back and waits. The other four strike up a conversation about the hangar and some needed improvements, and Jesse just listens on. He doesn’t have much to contribute- he’s not the one who’ll be using this space. He’ll help with the labor of moving things, but they’ve already cleared out most of the junk.

The winch powers up suddenly and queues the arrival of the transport. Sliding up, the metal door brings in the bright light of the morning and Torbjorn scowls, curses, and Jesse has never felt more connected with the man than he does in that moment.

Expertly - though Lena will critique the landing all the same - Genji pulls into the hangar and the metal door slides back down.

The anticipation is palpable.

-

As it turns out, Zenyatta fits into life at the watchpoint more easily than Jesse would have expected.

Zenyatta is intrigued by Tracer’s thoughts on life, given her ability to rewind and manipulate time around her. Likewise, Tracer is enamoured with Zenyatta for the differences in his philosophy from Mondatta’s. The two are brought closer through their grief at his passing.

Winston finds a debate partner. Their friendship blossoms in their agreement to disagree. Science versus thought. Facts versus beliefs. Matter versus mind.

Jesse makes no such connection. Though, he supposes he ought to be thankful for how much Zenyatta has helped Genji.

They weren’t friends, but Jesse witnessed enough of Genji’s self-destructive behaviors to be concerned. Enough to be uncomfortable. In the quick rage and scathing words which consumed Genji back then, Jesse could see himself.

He can still see himself.

So he doesn’t get close, because he doesn’t want to think about it.

-

The second addition is a bastion unit that Torbjorn finds.

Jesse has never seen Reinhardt angry, save for when he discovers that the bastion unit is going to be around for a while. No one faults him for it. The german has seen more than his fair share of brothers and sisters mowed down by the omnic’s ilk.

It’s only when Reinhardt witnesses the unit being gentle, like nothing he’s known before, with a bird that he edges closer to accepting. He will always wait for the other shoe to drop, for that light to turn red, but until then, he remains guarded toward the bastion.

Jesse likes the omnic well enough. He’s quiet. But he doesn’t hang around, doesn’t like the way that the bastion unit stares. Jesse fears that it can see right through his shell, right into the yawning pit that he feels in his chest.

-

The evening of the day in which the third new member to the watchpoint arrives, Jesse drinks himself stupid.

Angela arrives and fits right in. Overwatch. She smiles and greets her old comrades. She embraces Tracer and Genji, laughs when Reinhardt scoops her up and swings her around, and fawns over the latest pictures of Torbjorn’s kids.

Even the newcomers, she greets warmly. She and Zenyatta discuss Genji’s antics with the coy jesting of good friends and she gently holds Ganymede as she talks with the bastion unit.

Jesse becomes more acutely aware of just how much he doesn’t belong.

They were, are, Overwatch. Even Genji, who was pulled from the pit of black ops and into the golden boys. Trading his red gear for blue.

It’s not his fault, but he wasn’t there.

Genji wasn’t there when shit started going sideways. Missions didn’t make sense, but anyone who questioned them either disappeared or wound up in jail.

Too many radio-silent nights. Too many dark-cover operations. Jesse’s still sure that at some point they were killing civilians, only because they were told it was a cover for an illegal operation. They never saw proof, just bodies and blood.

Jesse is the only one left who knows. Who watched. Who saw it all come unraveled.

At least, the only one left who thought it was wrong. Wrong. A feeling deep in his gut and his bones that shit just wasn’t right.

He drinks.

He doesn’t think about how cowardly he was, bailing out without a word.

He doesn’t think about all the times he should have spoken up, but let fear keep him quiet.

He just drinks. And he weeps.

-

With each new member, Jesse feels himself fall more and more on the outside.

He’s smart, but not in the same way that Mei and Winston are.

He’s active, but doesn’t quite possess the same skill category as Tracer and Genji.

There’s nowhere he fits. No one who slots beside him.

Jesse feels just as alone as before. Maybe even more so, now that the possibility is dangled before him.

He considers leaving, but then he remembers his bed, and sleeping in, and how he finally has that luxury here.

He stays.

-

It has to be just after midnight when the shrill alarm of the watchpoint proximity sensors goes off.

Jesse can hear everyone scrabbling, Tracer is hurriedly talking into her comm as she zips by the door.

An intruder.

Someone on the perimeter of the watchpoint; a spectre appeared in the dead of night.

A familiar sense of panicked urgency has him walking hurriedly out of his room. Still shirtless. At least he had the decency to put on pants, and the wherewithal to sling his holster around his hips with Peacekeeper tucked inside.

These days, with the solid steel doors and walls and the heavy lock on his door, he feels safe enough to not sleep with her beneath his head. She stays on his table, in reach, but no longer wrapped in his grip through the night.

Everyone is crowded around Winston’s half-functional command center. All power and activity is focused on the watchpoint- no need to put signals out and alert the wrong people of their activity.

The recall was a risk.

One that might be coming to bite them in the ass at this very moment.

Winston looks frantically from screen to screen. “The main gate’s sensor was tripped. I can’t see anyone out there.” He says, irritated, frazzled.

Torbjorn looks as well and confirms. There’s no visual of an intruder.

Jesse pops the strap of his holster and heads for the exit. “I’ll check the perimeter.” He says, resigned to no sleep for the night. He won’t rest until he satisfies his paranoia. 

_ ‘What if someone got in? What if they know the cameras?’ _

The ideas are not farfetched. Jesse is proficient at those exact tactics. Hiding in blind spots. Knowing when and where the video feeds will be looking.

“I will come with you.”

Genji trails out after him, in a similar state of dress.

They take a look at each other, give a short chuckle, and then fall to silence as they head for the main gate.

It feels strange. Falling into this familiar routine with Genji. Something they’ve done before, apart mostly, but together in some cases. They don’t speak, they don’t walk close. Tense and curious. More strangers than comrades since Genji found a way to soothe his anger.

They reach the gate and Genji halts.

Jesse waits for a beat, but all Genji does is look around. The hold-up is annoying and Jesse rolls his eyes and makes for the key pad.

Or, he tries.

Genji’s hand is like a sudden vice around his wrist, pulling him back. His head is tilted back, gaze fixed upward.

Jesse follows his line of sight and sees nothing in the dark.

But he hears something. Someone.

A laugh. Dark, deep, and it causes the hair on the back of Jesse’s neck to raise. He has blurred memories of a wild night, of too many drinks and bright lights.

A shape drops down from above; a man. Broad and sturdy. Yet, his landing is smooth, practiced.

Genji doesn’t draw his blade, but Jesse can’t be bothered to ask why because he doesn’t draw his gun.

Dark eyes bore into Jesse. A smirk curls at the corners of the newcomer’s downturned lips until it splits into a grin that shows too many teeth. Cruel, almost. Borderline. He looks different, but that damn sneer is still the same.

“Well,” Jesse says, crossing his arms, suddenly feeling more exposed. There is a cool touch on his sternum, no bigger than a quarter. Normally, ignorable, but right now it is a pinpoint pressure demanding attention. Jesse fights against it. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“I could say the same about you, Jesse.” The man retorts.

“I’m surprised you’ve got the balls to show up here, Hanzo.”

“Actually,” He turns his gaze toward Genji. “I was invited.”

Jesse narrows his eyes in disbelief. “No shit?”

Hanzo mimics Jesse’s pose. Arms crossed, a haughty tilt to his chin. “Yes shit.”

“Wait! Wait.” Genji looks frantic, head whipping between the two of them. With his visor off, it’s easy to see the confusion on his face. “Jesse you-” He looks toward Hanzo. “How do you know him?”

Jesse hopes he lies.

Hanzo focuses back on Jesse, his eyes dip to his sternum. Jesse can see the small, golden loop reflect in Hanzo’s dark eyes before they dart up and their gazes lock.

“Legally. He is my husband.”


	2. Echoes

It's awkward. Of course it is.

Sitting across from the two brothers, Jesse wishes he'd never answered his old communicator. All of the late mornings and sleep filled nights aren't worth being stared down by two Shimadas as they talk to each other in their native tongue.

Jesse isn't even aware of when Genji lost his mind and contacted his brother, his would-be killer. But it seems like they've had considerable contact. Enough that they don't discuss the fact that they are meeting again.

Jesse's only proficient enough in Japanese to be a tourist. He's good with vocabulary- nouns, honorifics, and the occasional verb.

Enough to know that he's being talked about. That the situation is being talked about.

_ ‘When?’ _

_ ‘Six years. No, seven.’ _

_ ‘Where?’ _

_ ‘Las Vegas.’ _

_ ‘How?’ _

“The usual,” Jesse pipes up, “Got drunk, got hitched.”

Hanzo chuckles and levels Jesse with a look like he's getting the most amusement from seeing Jesse suffer in this scenario. He grins, that same infuriating, curling smirk. Cutting. But Jesse can't look away from it. “I believe it was far from ‘the usual’.”

Jesse has the instinctual urge to upend the table, start a fight, and flee. The thought that someone might actually know what lay under his skin sends him into a panic.

But this isn't a bar.

And his only sanctuary isn't far enough that he would feel even an iota of safety within it.

So he returns the grin, makes it twice as lavacious and leans on his elbows. He cranes across the table, “Oh,  _ I _ know it wasn’t,” He croons in a too-sweet voice. “But how far from the usual do  _ you _ think it was?”

Hanzo leans in as well, folding his hands underneath his chin. “Foolhardy cowboy,” He purrs right back.

The whole exchange appears passive aggressive. Genji looks torn between breaking it up and letting them continue as long as they don’t come to blows.

Jesse is having the time of his life. And Hanzo’s smile- he remembers that. It’s genuine enjoyment. The back and forth, the competition.

“I was after your bounty.” Hanzo says, lording it over the table like some revelation.

Barking out a laugh, Jesse slams a fist on the table and tosses his head back. “I figured that part out, real quick like, Mister Bats-his-eyelashes-a-mile-a-minute.” He delights in the red that flushes across Hanzo’s cheeks. “That’s why I made sure you were gettin’ just as drunk as I was.” Jesse slings his arm across the back of the empty chair beside him. “‘Sides, it’s only fair. I was after yours.”

Silence takes over the three men. It’s tense, winding tighter until it just might snap. Genji looks ready to call the whole thing off, to drag one of them away.

Suddenly, Hanzo laughs. Really laughs. Not a chuckle, not just an amused hum behind a devilish smirk. His shoulders shake and he clutches his chest. He laughs with his mouth open, parted, teeth halfway bared from the wrinkling of his nose.

It’s ugly. Jesse’s glad he’s not the only one here with a nasty laughing face.

“I supposed we both failed then.” Hanzo quips after he catches some of his breath. He’s still letting out little chortles, trying to contain his mirth. “I was going to use the money to go off the grid.”

“I just needed yours for some booze and a train ticket.”

“Why not use it for something more luxurious?”

Jesse grins. “A private island of my own, then?”

They fall to fits and Genji looks bewildered. Just barely, through the roar of their laughter, Jesse is sure he hears a muttered ‘This was a mistake.’

-

Things go back to normal after that. Jesse avoids most of the newcomers and the old veterans too. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to deal with prodding questions of where he’s been and how he’s doing.

Bad. He’s doing bad. And he knows it.

But just because he knows it, doesn’t mean he likes to talk about it. Jesse likes to push away the crippling loneliness and the feeling of being disconnected from the rest of the world. He prefers those feelings be tucked at the bottom of a bottle.

His avoidance and his new habit of sleeping late into the day means he stays up until odd hours. It throws his whole schedule off and more often than not, it’s past midnight when Jesse eats dinner.

Angela chides him, when she manages to catch him. Something about the late hours being poor for his mental health. Jesse tries to brush off the statement, ignore the problem, but he can't when the new scientist, Mei pipes up. She mentions biorhythms and words too grand and complicated for Jesse to deal with- he's smart, but he was never good with books and the sciences of life.

Her eagerness, her earnest concern for his well being despite not knowing him, gives him pause. Jesse doesn't change, but he at least thinks about it.

-

It's a late night when Jesse finally runs into Hanzo again. His husband- he still laughs when he thinks about it. The shock on everyone's faces, the sinister pleasure of seeing them all so flabbergasted, and the same curling expression of mirth mirrored on Hanzo's face.

The man is still a snide asshole, but damn if it doesn't still look good on him.

They bump into each other in a hallway with fluorescent lights. They're dimmed to conserve power during the night when no one needs them. One flickers and Jesse finds himself immediately aggravated with the lighting system as a whole because of it.

Hanzo rounds a corner a bit too fast and Jesse is lost in his own head- they collide.

Both of them are solid, so neither of them stumble. They don't separate far enough or fast enough and Jesse watches Hanzo's eyes dip right back down to his chest - covered this time - where the golden ring sits against his skin. It's hidden, but they both know it's there.

"Fancy meetin' you here." Jesse drawls in an attempt to prevent an awkward silence.

Hanzo straightens up, brushes invisible dirt from his black t-shirt. It strains over his chest and his arms and the casual look is good on him- anyone with eyes could tell you that. "Apologies."

Jesse leans against the wall, kicks a leg over to cross and ankle and hums. "What brings you out so late?"

The other man shrugs as his hands find each other in front of him. It's almost a demure gesture, yet Jesse knows that Hanzo is anything but. His fingers interlock, holding onto one another. A white knuckled grip like he can't grab tight enough. "Restless."

Jesse nods, then jerks his chin forward, back the way Hanzo just came from. "Join me for a smoke?"

"Yes." The reply is immediate, desperate. Relieved in the sort of way that only comes from someone with an addiction not having to ask for their vice. Pleased that it's been offered instead.

Jesse pretends not to immediately notice. "Think the fresh air will help?"

Hanzo shoots him a sharp glance. "No, but a cigarette will."

Silence accompanies their short walk to one of the hangar doors. It leads out to a small tarmac, big enough for a small passenger hovercraft, and nothing else. The runway isn’t long enough for a plane, and there are no connecting roads for vehicles. In the hayday of this outpost, the tarmac was primarily used for the more discrete crafts- visiting officials, celebrities, and black ops.

Now, it’s a place where Jesse is free to smoke with little worry of someone commenting on his habit. He thinks if he hears another lecture from Angela, he might scream.

He knows it’s unhealthy, knows that it’s killing him, but it doesn’t matter to him. He’s not exactly changing anyone’s lives for the better. Hell, even the train robbery would have been better off without him. There would be less liars in the world if he hadn’t ruined that Talon hit. The witnesses could tell the whole truth, instead of whatever lies they came up with to give him time to get away.

Might have been less karma to just rob the train himself, instead of creating more sin in the world.

Jesse plucks out the case of cigarillos he keeps tucked in his pocket. Taking two he decides to share with Hanzo, just for today. After this, the bastard will have to get his own.

Before he can even offer, he hears the flick of a lighter, a ragged inhale, and then the cloying scent of cigarettes wafts from Hanzo’s direction. Flavored, if Jesse had to hazard a guess; cherry, if his nose was still any good. Illegal in the States, but elsewhere, he’s not entirely sure. 

Jesse can’t help but chuckle, which draws a glaring stare from Hanzo.

“What?”

“The way you acted earlier, thought you didn’t have any on ya.” He puts the extra cigarillo in his shirt pocket. Just in case they linger here; just in case he needs something to occupy himself.

Hanzo shakes his head. “I was not sure where was appropriate to smoke.”

Understandable. It occurs briefly to Jesse that Hanzo must not have smoked in a few days, since his arrival. Else, he was sneaking a puff here and there somehow. “Private quarters and outside are acceptable- though people will still pester ya if they catch your scent.” He gestures out in front of him. “This here’s about the only place to get some peace and quiet with your vices.”

Out of the way, an offshoot of a hallway that doesn’t lead to a main facility. Someone would have to actively be searching for the bay door to head this direction.

“Noted.”

They smoke in silence.

It’s nothing Jesse wants to break. His mind focuses on the way his lungs feel when he takes in a drag- in and out. Slow and steady, enjoying every moment of this terrible habit.

For a time, he briefly considered purchasing one of those popular e-cigs. They looked just like the real thing, and he could adjust the nicotine intake. Slowly wean himself from it, but he didn’t take to it.

It was too much to keep up with when he was on the run, expensive to maintain. Even more expensive to replace if he had to leave it behind somewhere.

On the other hand, if he left half a pack of cigarillos, well, that was no skin off his bones.

He hears Hanzo groan as the archer flicks the butt of his cigarette off the edge and immediately procures another one. The container Hanzo uses is silver, embossed with roses and vines with thorns. Not at all the dragon motif he would have expected. It looks worn, tarnished, and Jesse thinks it might have some sentimental value.

It’s when Hanzo takes a long drag of his second cigarette that Jesse notices  _ it _ . His eyes are drawn to the bright red cherry end that reveals itself when Hanzo taps away the ash.

And then, the moonlight catches something metal on the archer’s hand.

A ring.

Gold, unremarkable and simple.

Jesse suddenly feels the matching one against his chest go cold.

“You still wear the ring, huh?” He asks, trying to casually let Hanzo know that he’s noticed it. He’s fishing for answers too; wants to know why Hanzo even bothered keeping the proof of one night’s mistake.

Hanzo looks at him from the corner of his eye. Even without the fully facing him, Jesse can feel his scrutiny. It's the same drag of eyes from that night- appraising a potential prize and gauging a predator's threat. "You say that as if you do not have yours as well."

"Yeah, but mine ain't on my finger." He rebuffs quickly, pulling the chain on his neck, removing the ring from against his skin. He can still feel the searing loop pressed against his heart.

Jesse isn't sure why it's bothering him now. It never has before. No one's asked about the ring and ever since it found its way to the chain around his neck, he hasn't bothered to remove it.

Hanzo holds his cigarette between his lips as he juts his hand out, flipping it over, back and forth, examining it. There is one spot on the golden band that is worn, and Hanzo rotates the ring until he can rub the pad of his thumb against that space. It answers enough.

Yet the archer offers more. "It has come in handy." He turns, faces Jesse and raises his chin. The gesture is just shy of being commanding, more of a direction of Hanzo's attention. He's letting Jesse know that he has it all. "Why do you still have yours?"

"Insurance." Jesse answers too fast.

Hanzo's face darkens. "To blackmail me." He sneers, as if he hadn't expected that at all from a known con man.

Jesse laughs around his cigarillo, lets the tension wind up a little bit tighter before he releases it. "Not that kind." He says, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air with a lazy grin. "In case I ever find myself in a tight spot and need a bit of cash." Hanzo's posture relaxes, only a little, and Jesse can't help but wonder why he isn't entirely eased. "Pure gold is hard to come by these days, and this little thing would get me far away."

Hanzo scoffs, turns away. Almost like he's scorned. "If they did not kill you for it. I would not pay for something I could easily take."

An impulse takes over, something remnant of the teasing back and forth in Vegas all those years ago.

He reached out quick, plucks the cigarette from Hanzo's fingers and sticks it between his own lips. "Easily." He coos around the smoke.

Hanzo stares at him, bewildered, insulted, and yet also somehow intrigued and amused. If there was one thing playing cards with Hanzo taught him, even for the one night they had, it's that his face is expressive. But that's the thing- it's too expressive and impossible to pinpoint any one thing that might be crossing his mind. It makes him difficult to read, in a unique way that Jesse isn't used to catching.

Jesse holds his gaze and gives him a smug smile around the cigarette as he inhales long and deep. The cherry-fire end burns between them, the ashes of the smoke building up quickly and falling under their own weight.

The archer's brow creases and he steps toe to toe with Jesse.

For a moment, the cowboy is sure he fucked up, took things a step too far. They aren't that familiar. Their history is nothing but a whisper in the story of their lives. Yet, something tells them they weren't that good at hiding then. There was too much booze, and when that wasn't working against either of their high tolerances for drink, drugs. Neither of them noticed, too caught up, too sloppy.

Sloppy enough to get married. Surely they were also too far gone to really hide what they found humorous or agreeable.

"I used the ring to get away from a hit I committed at a dinner party."

Jesse raises an eyebrow, lets the smoke curl from his lips. It catches under the brim of his hat, spreads against his face and billows between them.

A hand finds his chest, travels slowly up.

"I was stopped by an officer who had been nearby. He caught me rushing away; the body was discovered too soon and I was too close."

Hanzo's eyes dart down to Jesse's lips, obvious on purpose. A show.

"I was in a formal tuxedo, and I could only think of one thing to explain myself."

Fingers dip against his pocket tug at his shirt and Hanzo smiles something awful. Sinuous, suggestive, curling at the corners as his eyes smolder.

"I told him I was late to my own wedding."

Jesse inhales so sharply it hurts, the cigarette threatens to fly to the back of his throat from the force. He coughs, chokes, doubles over and wheezes through his laughter.

By the time he stands up- Hanzo is gone, absconded with his second cigarillo.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Twitter @FrostyRekt


End file.
